


Prodigal Son

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Series: Fortunate Son [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-15
Updated: 2008-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John/Sam incest, dub-con at best, takes place as a sort of tag to "Shadow." Also, there's some blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prodigal Son

**Author's Note:**

> Read at your own risk. I own nothing, make no money, mean no harm.

_“Listen, Sammy, last time we were together we had one hell of a fight.”_  
“Yes, sir.”  
“It’s good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”  
“Too long.”  
\--Shadow

So John leaves. He gets into his truck and he drives off. It’s not safe to be around his sons, not safe for him or for them. As he travels down the interstate he’s thinking about that, and he can’t help laughing. It’s not a happy laugh. He’s feeling his arms wrap around Sam, and all he can see is the look of Sam’s face, covered in blood. He knows Sam’s blood. It’s his too. He knows the scent of it, the way it must taste where it flowed down Sam’s cheeks to the corner of his mouth. It’s been a long time, but he would recognize his boy anywhere. His cheeks are less full, but his eyes, his hands, the rhythm of what he says—it’s all the same.

***

“Because I don’t fucking _want_ to!” Sam yells hoarsely. Dean has already made himself scarce, sensing what’s coming next. Sometimes when they go head to head he watches, like he can’t stop himself from staring in fear and anger. But mostly he slinks off, disappears for a few hours if he thinks John won’t need him. If it’s still early, he’ll go wait in the room he shares with Sam, or the Impala. This time, it’s almost over anyway, and he’s silently grabbed his keys and taken a drive. Anything to get away from it.

“What did you say to me, son?” John bellows back. The boy wants a fight, he can damn well have one.

“You fucking heard me the first time,” Sam spits, and he turns his back and begins to walk away. John’s temper flares up then.

“You don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you!” He’s beside his youngest son in two quick steps, grabbing him by the arm.

“Oh, yeah?” Sam turns around again, faces his father with pure venom. “Make me stay.”

It’s instinct for John to slap the kid, teach him to show his old man a little respect, but he isn’t expecting Sam to turn again, trying to wrench himself free, and his hand lands hard and heavy across Sam’s mouth. Sam’s legs give out and he stumbles into the couch; he gives a little choking gasp and reaches his fingers up to where John has cut his boy’s lip against his teeth.

Sam isn’t crying but he’s shaking, staring at the blood on his fingers as if he’s never seen anything like it before. His mouth is open in shock and John can see the blood collecting under his lip, his tongue moving unconsciously to clean it away, staunch the flow.

“Sammy,” John starts, and reaches out his hand, still stinging from the impact. Sam flinches, bloodied hands flying to protect his face, but John catches the hands and holds them steady at Sam’s side. He peers into the wide green eyes.

“Sammy, I’m sorry,” he tries, but the words don’t even convince him.

“I’m bleeding,” Sam says, and saying the words aloud is enough to make tears start dripping from his eyes. He’s still shaking uncontrollably, busted lip and hands trembling.

“I’m sorry, Sammy, I didn’t mean it,” John tries again. “Just, here, sit down…” He lets go of Sam’s hand and motions to the couch, and Sam sinks down, his wet eyes not leaving John’s face.

“Here, let me see that,” John says gruffly, and Sam allows him to lean in and examine the swollen lip. He probes it as gently as he can with his rough fingers, and Sam sits there and lets him. The cut is smaller than he thought at first, peering into Sam’s mouth—just a superficial gash that will sting like hell for a few days when Sam tries to talk or chew. And that might give him a reminder about his attitude, even.

Sam’s still a kid underneath the tough face he puts on, even with all he knows about things that grown men can’t face. He’s still a gawky teenager with a mouth that’s too big even for those long legs but for once he’s not saying anything, just letting John inspect the damage. Perfect white teeth parted, eyes still half-afraid John’s going to hit him again.

He wouldn’t. He’s ashamed of himself, caught up in regrets when he realizes how long Sam’s been sitting on the couch, not taking his eyes away from his father. “It’s not too bad,” he announces, but his fingers are still tracing the warmth of the bloody cut. He leans in closer, carefully pulling Sam’s lip out into the light and ducking his head to get a closer look. “Nothing you didn’t probably have coming anyway.”

Sam stiffens, shying away from John, and he regrets it instantly. He can see the wary look in the kid’s eyes, wondering if this is the part where John decides no real harm’s been done and Sam still needs to learn that lesson about respecting his father.

“Relax, Sam. I’m sorry, alright?” Some of the tension leaves Sam’s shoulders, and he nods. John’s fingers are still tucked into the corner of Sam’s lip, and he removes them gently. Sam closes his eyes and his mouth, and John can see his tongue moving, licking at the cut.

John brings his fingers up to his own mouth, absent-minded, as he watches. They’re both moving slower now, careful of upsetting the first quiet minute they’ve had all afternoon. He traces his wet index finger across his lower lip. The mixture of Sam’s blood and spit dries and cracks on his skin, and he licks the film away, an unconscious mockery of his youngest son.

Sam’s eyes flick open and John realizes what he’s doing, and that’s enough to take their peaceful minute and a half and blow it to hell. He wishes, not for the first time, that he’s better at telling what Sammy is thinking. Dean’s always been the one for that, but of course he’s cleared out.

Sam’s looking at him with what John could only describe as _longing,_ and he’d give anything to be able to give his boy what he wants. Whatever he wants. It’s just that he thinks he’s probably just shot that to hell too.

Sam gets up abruptly, too sudden after the damn deer-in-the-headlights gaze that had caught them both for a minute, and all but backs into his room.

John’s torn between the feeling that he needs to go after Sam and the knowledge that it’s not going to do any good, and he might as well take care of himself. He heads for the shower instead.

“I’m sorry, Sam, I’m sorry,” he says to the wall, banging his head against the cool tile. He repeats it over and over and they’re just words, anyway, and he’s not even saying them to Sam, which is the only part that should matter.

He sits in the living room, and he doesn’t expect Sam to come back. But he does, and he’s got that same look in his eyes. His lip is swollen and red.

***

And John’s driving south, passing signs for the turn-off to Jefferson City, but he’s thinking about his youngest boy, how long it’s been since they’ve seen each other. He’s imagining the taste of Sam’s blood, the clink of their teeth together across the heavy warmth. Something else hadn’t changed about Sammy after all those years—the way he said “please.”


End file.
